


Stay With Me

by dinkyrose



Series: In Any Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Omega, Childbirth, First Love, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Teen Pregnancy, Teenlock, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinkyrose/pseuds/dinkyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One bad decision in the heat of the moment and Sherlock is left pregnant and alone. And with John exiled in Afghanistan as Sherlock goes into labour will Mycroft fulfill his promise in time to bring them back together ?</p><p>When boy meets boy with disastrous consequences.</p><p>*Heed the tags - if M-Preg is not your thing don't read - I really don't want to offend anyone*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Labour Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of 'You Me At Six' from the album 'Hold Me Down'.
> 
> Although this is purely in the realms of fantasy many things hold true, namely, the withdrawl method is not under any circumstances a reliable form of contraception and just this once could be one time too many. Safe sex or no sex right?

“I think it’s time.”

“No,” said Sherlock vehemently, “it can’t be, I still have two weeks left.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, shaking his head, calm in the face of Sherlock’s rising panic. “These things happen all the time. Babies seldom conform to a schedule, so I’m told, however much we might wish it otherwise.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but the words were quickly swallowed by another wave of excruciating pain.

“Three minutes since the last one Sherlock.” Mycroft looked critically at his wristwatch. “Come now, I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you.”

“But I can’t go yet….he’s not _here_.” Sherlock gripped the back of the chair by the dresser in his bedroom bending almost double. He sucked in a deep heaving breath and forced himself to hold it, expelling the air in short measured pants.

“For god’s sake Sherlock, I assure you we’re trying our best.” Mycroft snapped in irritation, impervious to his brothers discomfort.

“Well try harder damn it…I _need_ him. This is all _your_ fault and I _hate_ you.”

Mycroft regarded him coolly. “Not entirely my fault though, is it Sherlock, I wasn’t the one who put you in this most unfortunate position, that I believe, was young Mr Watson’s doing.”

Before he had a chance to protest Mycroft turned briskly on one Italian leather-clad heel and swept in a cloud of cologne from the room. Sherlock could hear him, the arrogant arsehole, just outside the door ‘discussing’ him with mummy and daddy, agreeing in obsequious tones how unreasonable and irrational he was, and how such behaviour was only to be expected from him in his delicate condition. But Sherlock was in far too much pain to care by now. He was well into the early stage of labour, possibly further.

Sherlock knew his brother was right about one thing though, the hospital, not that he ever would admit it, but as long as he stayed here, at home in his room, he could go on pretending that none of this was really happening. It had actually worked for most of the day. A slight tightening around his abdomen was all he’d felt at first. The odd sensation woke him in the early hours of the morning after a few precious hours of sleep,  and he dutifully took out a notebook to write down each time that it happened, like tracking the progress of a rather grotesque experiment. Slowly throughout the day, forty minutes narrowed to thirty, to twenty, to ten until he was struck with a sudden and inexplicable desire to strip down his bed sheets and clean his own bathroom. The nesting instinct was an old wives tale he thought even as he tussled with elasticated corners and got trapped in an inside-out duvet cover, sweaty and frustrated biting his lip as if inflicting more pain upon himself would somehow help him resist the excruciating cramps set low in his abdomen.

With as much grace as he could muster which was admittedly, not much, Sherlock sank further down towards the floor. He eased his hands carefully down the heavy wooden chair-back and squatted, frog like, legs parted to accommodate his grossly distended stomach. That felt a little better and he leaned slightly forward and pressed his clammy forehead to the cool lacquered surface of the dressing table, counting out the seconds in his head.

One hundred and thirty seconds. Two minutes ten. His stomach tightened to a rock hard ball and he rocked back on his heels with a groan, crying out in pain as his bottom hit the floor. The door flew open with a bang crashing into the wall behind, and with Mycroft at his back and mummy at the front, gentle hands heaved him up to standing again, guiding him over to sit on the bed.

“That’s quite enough Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped in frustration, “you’re going in now. You are not giving birth in this house, you need hospitals, doctors, a professional medical team… too many things can go wrong when...”

Sherlock didn’t bother listening to the rest of Mycroft’s lecture, not that he could concentrate through the constant haze of pain. He knew it by heart now anyway, had heard him say as much repeatedly for much of the past nine months. His age of course – too young,his tall slender build and worryingly narrow pelvis, the child was estimated to be at least nine pounds taking his own birth weight into account, and therefore the need for medical intervention was a statistically high probability. It had the potential to be a difficult birth, and for him and the child to stand the best possible chance of survival a surgical team would be on hand to provide for every eventuality. It was odd to contemplate dying, that this life inside his belly could be the end of him. It was some small comfort that if that were the case then a tiny part of him and John would live and grow and thrive in his place. He remembered how he had hated this thing before he'd seen it, alive and squirming on the black and white screen, how John had gripped his hand like a vice before the doctor found out he wasn't next of kin and security had dragged him out of the room.

John. He would miss this. Scalding hot tears bourne of anger and frustration prickled at the backs of his eyes. But nothing could stop this from happening now, the baby was coming whether Sherlock was prepared or not.

He rolled onto his side, as far as the baby would allow him to and squeezed his eyes tight against the next contraction that felt as if it would rip his too-slight body apart.  He couldn’t do this, not on his own, not without his Alpha, his John. But John was over two thousand miles away in the sweltering heat of Kandahar. A compromise Mycroft had claimed, prison or the army, that had been his choice.

Mummy stroked the hair back from his brow, swiping a gentle thumb along his cheekbone too, thankfully passing no comment on the silent flow of tears that dampened his face and rolled off his chin onto the pillow beneath his head.

Bag already packed weeks in advance, Sherlock finally allowed himself to be manhandled into the waiting car, the final vestige of resistance crumbling under the onslaught of pain. Every small bump in the road lanced through him, he couldn’t sit still in his seat, fidgeting and grimacing and yanking at the seat belt, and even though he was running hot and drenched in sweat his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The pain was almost a blur now, and a constant ringing filled his ears, with barely time to catch a breath in between each new contraction. When they struggled through the doors to maternity a short time after, the nurse on duty only had to take one glance before she promptly commandeered the nearest wheelchair for him.

The clinical stench of the labour ward made his mouth fill with water as they wheeled him down the gleaming corridor. It was eerily quiet in the early pre-dawn hours, the only sounds the vague muffled cries of fussy new-borns behind closed doors the click of the mid-wife's heels and the swish of rubber wheels across the floor. He hated hospitals with a vengeance now. The endless prodding and poking over the course of the pregnancy having stripped away every last shred of his dignity. Feet hoisted up in stirrups and naked from the waist down with a latex-gloved hand knuckle deep in his arse. It had made him feel cheap, disgusting, ashamed of himself and his rapidly distorting body, made worse by the pitying looks he attracted and the mutters of shocked disapproval.

Not that a pregnant omega was anything out of the ordinary. Rather, there were other considerations....

Such a bright child too. What a waste.

The disruption to his education hadn’t been the worst of it. At his first examination when oestrus had failed to occur, the doctor had taken his mother aside looking grave. She on the other hand returned looking furious. “Pregnant at sixteen…Sherlock what on earth have you been doing, what on earth were you thinking?”

“The point, I think,” said Mycroft that night, “is that he really wasn’t thinking at all. At least,” he added, “not with his brain.”

That may have been true, Sherlock thought, but it wasn't just John's fault, he'd been equally to blame for this.

~*~

_The cool summer breeze tickled at his skin and the heady scent of the tall wild grass washed over his senses in a delicate haze. John hovered above him, hands braced either side of his head, the muscles in his arms tense with the effort to hold himself up as he gazed at Sherlock's face with a mixture of awe and wonder._

_'I love you so much', he breathed, 'Fuck, Sherlock.'_

_'Yes please,' Sherlock smiled, which made John laugh, even more so when he raised his legs higher to wrap around John's waist and tugged down sharply on his shoulder's until the boy above him collapsed onto his chest._

_He arched his neck invitingly, and shivered as a tip of a warm, wet tongue traced a line up his throat._

_'I want you...I want to...' John broke off, his next words lost as their lips pressed together. Sherlock felt like he was drowning, breath hitching and heaving in his chest. He buried his fingers in the soft blond layers of John's hair and ground his hips up aware of how desperate he was for more. Anything John could have anything, everything as long as this would never end. Cars zipped back and forth along the road, oblivious, the distant chatter of voices from the sports field could still be heard as the after school practices got underway. This was their place, among the tall grass and wild flowers, set in a glade of trees across the bridge that straddled the river at the edge of the school grounds. But for all the times they'd been here, they'd never gone as far as this. But Sherlock wanted, oh god how he wanted, term ended tomorrow and they'd both be going home. Two months without John would be torture after being together every day for the last three months, and if this was to be the last time then Sherlock intended to make it count. Whatever that involved._

_Lightly calloused fingers traced a line down Sherlock's side to his hip, and John grabbed a handful of arse cheek and squeezed before sliding his palm further under and pressing on the back of Sherlock's thigh until he unlocked his ankles from around John's waist and draped a leg over each of his shoulders. The chink of a belt buckle and the rustle of heavy fabric, John pushed roughly at his jeans, shoving them down as far as he could manage, Sherlock's own clothes discarded some time before, crumpled and damp beneath the trees._

_Cold lube on overheated skin made him twitch, it was so easy to forget that they needed it sometimes. He relaxed a little more as two fingers eased inside him going slowly, giving him more time to adjust, not that it was needed. He still felt stretched out from when his heat had ended last week. Sherlock wriggled impatiently. 'Please'._

_John kissed him gently, tongue sliding softly against his own, teeth nipped at his swollen bottom lip gently sucking on the tender flesh. The blunt head of John's cock pressed up against his hole and he tilted his hips to draw him in further. Sherlock arched as John pushed forward, the hot, thick length of his hard Alpha cock stretching and filling him perfectly even without the promise of a knot. Sherlock didn't care because this felt more real, almost. No raging hormones and uncontrollable urges, just them, wanting each other just as much without all that and it was perfect, John was perfect, he was loved and he loved in return with all his heart._

_'I'm going to miss you so much,' John whispered brokenly, 'promise, you have to promise you won't leave me.'_

_'Never,' Sherlock breathed, groaning at the friction on his own tender flesh where his cock lay trapped between their bodies._

_'Need,' John gasped and his hips stuttered, 'to pull out, gonna come soon.'_

_'No,' Sherlock clung to him, desperate and reckless, 'Don't care, not in heat anymore....want to feel you come inside me."_

_'Oh God,' John groaned, 'I want to so much, but...'_

_'Do it,' Sherlock moaned, 'Come in me John...please.'_

_John thrust into him hard, pushing Sherlock back along the damp, flattened grass beneath them. He felt the warm rush of fluid pulsing into him in rhythmic bursts as his own cock spurted against his chest, sticky and warm on their skin._

_John collapsed panting on top of him, easing his body up just enough to withdraw his softening cock. A trickle of come followed with it, wetting Sherlock's thighs and dribbling between the cheeks of his arse. He sighed in content, nuzzling into John's neck as he breathed in the sweet musky scent of him._

_'I love you.'_

_~*~_

 There was an oversized clock on the wall of the delivery room, the time announced three in the morning. Sherlock sighed in resignation, in the brief respite between contractions; trust a child of his to have a back-to-front sleep schedule even prior to birth.

“Lets get you out of those things now, shall we?” the plump beta midwife smiled at him kindly, indicating Sherlock’s sweatshirt and jogging bottoms. He tugged at them absently, holding onto the side of the bed as he dragged them down one thigh then the other feeling oddly off-balance and clumsy. They dropped the rest of the way to the floor and he kicked them off and pushed them away with his foot, disgusted at the dark brown stain that marked the crotch. After near constant wear in the last three months of his pregnancy, he never wanted to see them again after this night. John had wanted to burn them, they'd had it all planned out, a ritual bonfire in John's back garden to rid him of the hated oversize elasticated leisure wear that made him feel like a bloody old man and did nothing to disguise his expanding waistline. Not that John had minded it at all, the memory of soft kisses on each new livid purple stretch mark were all he had left of him now.

Because John wasn’t here.

“Is this normal?” he gave a violent shiver, almost biting his tongue as his teeth clacked together.

The midwife frowned, taking in his trembling frame and clucking her tongue in sympathy. A small steady hand wrapped around his elbow and led him carefully over to the bed. “We’ll just pop you up on the table love, shall we, see how far along you are, it might be further than we thought.”

Sherlock nodded, too dazed to argue, and hitched his bum up shuffling into the middle of the bed. A deep stack of pillows kept his body at a gentle recline and without any prompting he raised his knees, pressed his feet sole to sole the way he had a hundred times before, and allowed his legs to flop open.

“This might smart a little bit love, take a deep breath for me…there's a good boy.”

Sheathed fingers prodded inside him manually measuring dilation. Sherlock hissed at the stinging pain. “Five centimetres already love, you’re half- way there, well done.”

“It’s a natural bodily process," Sherlock huffed, "And hardly a worthy achievement…it’s not as if I’m doing anything.”

“Nonsense, it’s not to be sniffed at bringing a baby into this world,” said the midwife, pulling off her gloves and dropping them in the bin by the door. "But it could still take a good long while love, best you make yourself comfortable, have a little nap while you can, this could be a long night.” She snapped off the overhead light, exchanging it for a lamp by the bed.

Oh god, did they actually think that would help? Sleep? But Sherlock drew the thin, blue hospital blanket up to his shoulders anyway, lying half on one side with his knee raised. Between the constant indigestion, and acid crawling up the back of his throat every night, legs that ached and twitched involuntarily as soon as he tried to rest, he felt about a hundred years old, rather than the seventeen he actually was. He gasped as another wave of pain washed over him.

The midwife paused in the doorway, “You can have something…for the pain you know. There’s no sense in trying to be brave, you won’t win any medals for it, not here…..I’ve got three of my own love, it’s bloody hard work and I'd take all the help I could get if I were you.”

Sherlock keened, curling up into as much of a ball his distended body would allow. “Please,” he gasped, feeling young and scared and very much alone. “Something, anything…oh god I think I’m going to _die_.”

“No love, you’re not.” She patted his leg gently, smoothed sweat damp curls back from his brow. “You're going to be fine. It’s pain with a purpose you see, worth it, every agonizing minute, and when all this is over and that babe is in your arms you’ll barely remember this part at all.”

That, Sherlock sincerely doubted. Probably some useless platitude spouted to make him feel less wretched.

"Be right back love." With a final smile of reassurance she crossed to the door and disappeared. But seconds later as promised she came back, and practiced fingers pinched the top of his thigh and a needle pierced the skin. “Diamorphine love, might take a little time to kick in.” She gave his leg a little pat in reassurance, and all he could manage was to nod dumbly and wait for the welcome buzz of the medical grade drugs to hit. It seemed a very bad idea considering his history of substance abuse. Wasn’t it in his records? Didn't his parents have to give their permission or something?

The world went fuzzy at the edges. The pain was still there but it felt like he could breathe again. Someone pressed a cool damp cloth to his brow and when he began to cough, fed him ice chips from a plastic cup. Footsteps were like echoes and bodies as insubstantial as shadows. He was so tired, everything hurt, his eyes pressed shut to block out the last of the light. He was dimly aware of a thick band stretched around his middle holding soft rubber pads and electrodes in place. The monitor beeped softly, a rapid little rabbit heart and another overlaying it slower and steady.

Three, Sherlock thought as he drifted into darkness.

There really should be three.

 

 


	2. How We Were, How We Are and How We Will Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the past and how a friendship began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time! - I can't leave well alone. The short story I initially conceived (snort) has morphed into something significantly longer.   
> Progress has been slow this month, and if I say 'wood-chip wallpaper' and black mould, some of you may understand why.(dry-scraping an 8x12ft space in summer is not anyone's idea of fun!).  
> But back to the fic - four chapters (Yay!) will be posted tonight, (around midnight GMT) filling in the backstory before the main event when baby Holmes-Watson makes their debut. But that's something for later - for now, there's a meeting to get through, a lot of bickering, a little sex and some tears - Enjoy!

Fifteen Months Earlier:  Februrary 1st .

“Bloody hell, I’m glad that’s over.” John burst into the sixth form corridor with Mike, wet and sweaty and mud-splattered, every inch of them covered in the stuff, cheeks bright pink and freezing. Coach had been working them hard after the Christmas break with practice four nights out of five and weight-training and circuits on the off-days. He was sore and exhausted and in desperate need of a shower or three. Some idiot had raked his shin in the scrum and the rough edge of a broken cleat had razed the skin where his sock had pushed down to his ankle. The blood had started to flow again freely now they were back inside the warmth of the building.

What John didn’t need was more drama, he’d had enough of that on the pitch tonight…. But it looked like he was shit out of luck this time, by the scene unfolding inside. John rolled his shoulders and heard them audibly crack and then loosen a little – he glanced across at Mike who looked back lips pursed, and mutely shook his head in warning then sighed in exasperation as John completely ignored him, moving in closer.

A tall, slim figure had his back to the wall by the sixth form lockers, a stack of books held firmly in his arms which he’d raised to his chest and held up like a shield to protect himself. It was Sherlock Holmes. John could barely even see him, just the shock of ebony curls, barely visible above the heads of a gathering group of around five or six boys from his year, all Alpha’s. That much John could tell from the stink, the air was thick with musk and the heavy base notes of fragrance, woody and cloying. It made John want to retch even though he was an Alpha too.

John’s nose twitched again, and caught a fresh pure scent like an early spring day, a startling mix of dew on grass and the sharp tang of ozone after a thunderstorm. The sudden intensity shot right to his head and made him sway, light-headed.

“John, you alright mate?” Mike slung a meaty arm out to steady him.

“Um, yeah…I think so…can you….can you smell that?” John stammered, shaking his head to try and clear the odd sensation.

“Smell what exactly?”

But of course not, how could he, Mike Stamford was a beta.

But Christ, it was like nothing he’d ever come across before, completely intoxicating. He felt almost drunk on it. His heart began to pound and a rush of white noise filled his ears. Mike smacked him between the shoulder blades and a heaving breath whooshed out of his lungs, he hadn’t even known he’d been holding it.

His skin broke out in goose-flesh and he shivered as if cold although one swipe of his brow told him otherwise. Hot. So hot. His skin was on fire.

Oh god, this could not be happening. He was not some bloody mindless animal. John forced himself to focus, to breathe, in for three, out for three. Slow and steady until his mind began to clear.

And then another delicious wave pulsed out, but with something else this time, something frantic with a bitter tang that set John’s teeth on edge. A potent mix of stress, fear, and adrenaline.

Because, despite the calm demeanour, and the arrogant tilt of his head, Sherlock Holmes was scared. John saw his lip curl in obvious disgust as the thick bulky figure of Sebastian Wilkes moved in closer, thick hands braced at either side of Sherlock’s shoulder’s to cut off any easy chance of escape. This was bad, John thought, Sherlock was alone and undeniably in heat or close enough that it hardly mattered by the smell of him, and Wilkes was scenting up a storm pressing his nose into the crook of Sherlock’s neck as his idiot friends egged him on.

If no-one stepped in to stop this, who knew how far it would go. And Wilkes would get away with it too. It made John seethe that at times like this the Alpha was never held accountable, everyone would blame Sherlock instead, for not taking precautions, for still attending classes right up to the point of oestrus, they’d say he invited this, that he’d _wanted_ it somehow, asked for it.

John stepped forward. No-one should touch him like that, no-one. Not like this. The wave of Alpha pheromones was almost enough to shake his resolve as it hit him like a slap to the face. He took a half-step back and coughed into his sleeve. His eyes flickered briefly to Sherlock’s, then away again, almost too bright to look at, leaving black spots across his vision like he’d just stared into the sun.

“What’s going on lads?” He kept his voice calm and measured, in stark contrast to the churning in his stomach as he pushed his way into the centre of the group, not giving a fuck about the mud smears and blood he left behind on their clothes. And they let him, because John wasn’t a threat, or at least that’s how they mistakenly perceived him. He was an alpha just the same as them, but a low rank scholarship kid who’d fought his way here on academic merit and a stubborn determination not to end up in the gutter like his father had, too drunk to hold down a job. These boys had had it easy all their rich, privileged lives, while John had had to fight for every chance he’d been given.

“Watson…Stamford. How’s it going lads, good game tonight?” Wilkes tore his face away long enough to nod briefly in acknowledgement. John knew he couldn’t give a shit about the rugby match. “Just passing the time with my good friend Sherlock here, y’know?”

John hummed and nodded his head in mock-agreement. “Funny,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “But it doesn’t look very friendly to me.”

Sherlock snorted, choking back a laugh.

John was trying to distract Seb, maybe even to annoy him, anything to keep that oversized nose away from Sherlock’s neck long enough to let him wriggle free and get the hell away from here. John didn’t care where he went. Back to his dorm, to the library, to the on-call nurse responsible for the Omega’s, just as long as it was anywhere but here. It wasn’t safe for him, not now, not anymore, and even though the thought sickened John, perhaps not even from him.

Sherlock took the hint thank god and tried to duck down beneath the circle of Sebastian’s arms. But a wide, heavy palm slammed back down in front of his face.

“Where do you think you’re going Holmes? Did I say we were finished here?”

“I would have thought it was obvious Wilkes, and this _conversation_ , delightful as it’s been, is over.” Sherlock glanced at the books in his arms and tipped his chin up defiantly.

Sebastian barked with laughter and his idiot pals joined in, but Sherlock stood his ground, bristling slightly in fear and anger. “Don’t know why you’re bothering with that lot,” Seb sniggered, looking to his pals for approval, “it’s not as if Omega’s need to study…besides, I can think of a million better ways to spend your time,” he grinned at Sherlock wolfishly, his tongue flicking out to lick over his lips.

Sherlock looked nauseated.  John didn’t blame him. “A million? That’s rather ambitious of all three,” he tilted his head to the side, “….no…. four inches of you Sebastian.”

The group sucked in a collective breath.

Sebastian paled.

“What the hell are you implying Holmes?” he spat.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Oh god, John thought, was he really going to answer that?  No please no, just leave it, shut up. He’d get a fist in his face the bloody idiot. John had seen him in action before, all speak now and think later, although John was pretty sure Sherlock knew exactly what effects his revelations had and just didn’t give a damn if he offended the recipient in the process. It was like he couldn’t help himself, some sort of compulsion, and the visible relief when he’d finished, like finally, now, he could stop thinking those thoughts, get them out of his head and move on, John noticed these things. Of course he noticed other things too. How could he not – it was Sherlock ‘cheekbones’ Holmes – of course he could be wrong and Sherlock was just an idiot with a death wish. An extremely attractive idiot. Shit. Silently cursing, John pushed forward again, shaking free of Mike’s warning hand before he could think to stop himself. “Just leave him alone Wilkes.”

“Piss off short-arse.” Seb snapped, the friendly façade gone, fixing John with a look of contempt. John knew that look well. Since he’d presented at fifteen, nearly every Alpha in the school had dismissed him as irrelevant. Clearly none of them saw him as a threat to their own mistakenly perceived superiority. John preferred it that way in truth and surrounded himself with people he liked, joined the rugby team, made captain last year and carved his own niche instead of following the herd. Secondary gender meant nothing to John, it was a little unfortunate his body disagreed.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, as he looked from one to the other, quicksilver eyes boring into John and reading him in an instant. “Oh god, please spare me,” he huffed. “What is this…pistols at dawn….a fight to the death for my virtue?”

“I just thought…” John stuttered, wrong-footed. “I thought you might need…” he trailed off. What did he think Sherlock _needed_ exactly?

“Well don’t think,” Sherlock snapped back, answering for him before he could form the words, “I’m perfectly fine. And I certainly don’t _need_ anything, from either of you. Sebastian, I believe you’ve wasted enough of my time. Now if _both_ you idiots will excuse me. I’ve work to attend to. Important work.”

And with that, he knocked Wilke’s arm aside and glared at them all defiantly, just daring someone to say something or try and stop him. But no-one moved. “Don’t touch me again,” he spat at Sebastian as he turned back to face him. “I have unrestricted access to a lab full of chemicals and an in-depth knowledge of a startling array of poisons. Do not tempt me. I will not hesitate to use them.”

Sebastian swallowed thickly and silently moved back to let him pass. As he stalked past John his pace seemed to falter a little, but after one quick, puzzled glance passed between them, he swept on, head bowed, banging through the door at the end of the corridor and disappearing out of sight.

It was nine long days before he re-joined the rest of the class, sliding into a seat at the back on his own like he usually did a fraction before the bell went. And it was as if now he’d noticed him, _really_ noticed him, John couldn’t look away if he’d tried. So now he noticed bloody everything. That there were dark purple smudges beneath his eyes the skin so pale it almost looked transparent, and that he was visibly thinner than last time John had seen him if that were even possible. Tailored black trousers, that had once been pleasingly tight around the curves of his arse slipped down now when he sat, to expose the bottom bony vertebrae and the jut of a hip bone where his white cotton shirt had come untucked from the waistband.

John bit his lip. Surely he hadn’t been in his dorm the whole time?

Omega’s got singles on a separate wing, John knew that already, with an omega housemaster and a beta nurse who was supposed to take care of the students experiencing a heat.

John tried to think back, willing himself to remember. Had Sherlock looked this bad last time? A little uncared for perhaps, pale. But he was hardly the outdoors type at the best of times, and with Sherlock it was so hard to tell. But nowhere near this level of self- neglect.

He frowned, watching as Sherlock stared listlessly, elbow on the desk with his chin cupped in his palm not even pretending to listen to the lecture. The stool beside him was empty, part by design and part by tacit agreement with the rest of the class, that any attempt at interaction would be rudely brushed aside so to not even bother trying it. John took a chance though, and when the teacher turned to the white board, he slipped from his own seat and slid along the empty row towards Sherlock.

“You can borrow my notes if you like…if you can’t be bothered to take any today,” he whispered, settling carefully onto the stool and wincing as it squeaked across the floor an inch or two.

Sherlock turned his head, bored, cheek still squashed against his hand. “And why on earth would I want to do that? I don’t take notes….I don’t need them.”

John’s face grew hot. Unlike him, Sherlock had made no attempt to keep his voice down. Several heads turned to stare, a few people sniggered and John looked down at his hands, blushing, and felt like an idiot. He picked up his books, and made to slide back along to the end of the bench again but long fingers shot out, gripped tightly to his forearm and he stopped and looked back in surprise.

“Sorry, that was….rude of me,” Sherlock said, quietly this time, “I appreciate your offer, but really, I don’t need them, its fine.” Sherlock’s eyes were soft, and his lips turned up in the hint of a smile.

John shrugged, grinning sheepishly back at him. “That’s okay, just thought I would offer…no big deal.”

“Um,” Sherlock looked at him his face clouded in uncertainty, “What you did the other week, I, erm….I never got to thank you, so erm…thank you.”

“Oh,” John said in surprise, “That’s alright…anytime.”

He sat down, Sherlock nodded curtly, turning back to face the front of the class and the rest of the hour passed in a surprisingly comfortable silence. They didn’t speak to each other again, but John could see that now and then, Sherlock would steal glances at him from the corner of his eye, his expression one of complete fascination.

John’s chest swelled a little.

It was a start, at least.

Sherlock didn’t hate him.

And he had no idea why that mattered so much. Or perhaps he did, but hope could be a dangerous thing.


	3. You Know Nothin John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John unearths a secret that Sherlock would rather keep hidden.

April:

“I still think you’re an idiot.”

“And you John, don’t know the first bloody thing about oestrus. It’s my right to refuse suppressants, regardless of my bond status, it’s my life and my body and I don’t want to pump it with a bunch of synthetic manufactured hormones.”

“But it’s safer.”

“For who exactly? The alpha’s who can’t control their urges?….I’ve already tried them John , they make me feel woolly, make it virtually impossible to focus, to think straight. It’s hateful in a way you can’t ever comprehend so kindly bugger off and leave me alone.”

John should have known better than to argue. Sherlock had an answer for everything. But this was a particular sticking point between the two of them, Sherlock’s bull-headed determination to weather his heats unaided and John’s quite reasonable concerns about his safety, considering what had happened on previous occasions. Sherlock in heat was intoxicating, more so than the average Omega, and Seb and his gang weren’t the only ones who’d noticed. Those days were the hardest, when Sherlock would retreat to the Omega wing alone and John would feel like he’d failed him somehow as he took out his aggression on the rugby pitch hoping for exhaustion so he could finally sleep without dreaming and not wake up in a wet patch, still hard.

But oddly, between the two of them, they made it work.

Sherlock was his friend now, his best friend, that first awkward, mutual acknowledgement in class having gradually developed into tentative conversation, to studying in the library, to spending all their free time and weekends together either wandering the grounds or sneaking into town after dark to go clubbing then climbing back in through John’s dorm-room window - which he’d purposely leave open - drunk and giggling, and shushing each other . And if they also shared a bed on those occasions, so what, that what friends did – or so they told themselves. Two grown boys on a narrow single bed, they’d start out back to back and wake up tangled in each other, sweating, with the covers pushed off onto the floor, Sherlock’s nose in John’s armpit, and a long slender leg between his thighs. John knew what everyone else thought, it just wasn’t like that, even if he did have to spend a bit longer in the shower when Sherlock snuck out to go back to his own dorm. But he couldn’t, and wouldn’t take advantage, even though it took an almost Herculean level of self-control when Sherlock was so thoroughly tempting, all sleep damp and warm in boxers and a scruffy blue tee.

 Besides, the cold, hard fact remained that Sherlock Holmes was way, way out of John’s league.

And he was promised.

Something John had discovered by accident one afternoon, while lounging together on the edge of the football field. They’d been studying or trying to. It was warm, the first really good day they’d had since the Easter break, much too nice to spend in a dim, stuffy library.  So they’d decamped outside instead, their books spread out on the grass under a tree, John lay on his stomach on a blanket stolen from the dorm, and Sherlock sat cross-legged, bent intently over a Chemistry textbook. His shirt was open at the neck, tie stuffed in his pocket as usual, and as John turned his head to ask him a question, there it was, hanging down from his neck, glinting in the sunlight on a fine golden chain. A ring.

“What’s that?” John asked, curious.

Sherlock looked up. “What’s what?”

“That,” John pointed at him, “The necklace…that charm thingy.”

Sherlock’s hand jumped to his neck automatically, and he stuffed the chain back under his shirt, hastily fastening a button. “Nothing.” He huffed and buried his head in his book again.

John knew he was lying. Bright spots of pink marked his cheeks, and his eyes had stopped moving over the page he’d been reading.

“No it’s not.” John sat up.

Sherlock raised his head again and glared at him in warning. “John…just don’t.”

Something cold settled in John’s stomach then, he knew exactly what it was. “Oh god, Sherlock….Is that a promise ring?”

Sherlock closed his book with a snap. “Just leave it John, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then it is,” said John. Now he’d seen it, he couldn’t not see, he had to know what it meant. Christ, he noticed everything about Sherlock, how had he missed this? How?

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, “Since you refuse let it drop, then yes, you’re right, it’s a promise ring.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“Do I know….them?”

“No, you don’t know them….him….the promise was made a long time ago, I’ve had this ring for years. It doesn’t even fit anymore, which is why it’s on a chain.”

John sucked in a breath. Why was he even surprised? Sherlock’s family were rich, extremely rich, with a huge estate in the country and a second home in France. His father was in government, and so was his Alpha brother, and his mother was sole heiress to a seven figure inheritance, wealthy in her own right. And promise contracts, though rare in the general populace, were still depressingly common among the landed gentry, made in childhood and consolidated if either of the promised pair presented as Omega. If neither did, the contract automatically voided. But Sherlock? That someone so brilliant, so wild and independent, extraordinarily unique could’ve had have his life mapped out for him before it had even begun?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he gasped. The air felt thick around him. He was finding it hard to breathe right now.

“Why would I? Would it have made any difference if I had?” said Sherlock, “I know you don’t…want me in that way John. But you don’t look at me like everyone else does either, like I’m one step away from being bare foot and pregnant. You make me believe I can _be_ somebody someday John….even if that’s a lie, and when I’m with you I can at least pretend it could be true.”

“You’re wrong,” John stammered, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s slim arm.

“No I’m not…..About what?” Sherlock stared at him, eyes wild, his brow drawn tight in confusion. He was breathing too fast, like he couldn’t quite decide if he should stay or run away.

Stay, John thought. Please, Sherlock stay.

“You’re wrong about all of it.” John shuffled forward and clasped Sherlock’s other arm too. “You’re amazing Sherlock and you _can_ be someone someday, and you _will._ ” Sherlock tried to twist away from him, but John caught him again and gently cupped his chin. His fingers trembled. He’d never touched Sherlock like this before.

Sherlock didn’t pull away.

“And how could you think I don’t want you, you idiot?” John said.

“Then….why haven’t you…?”

They were frozen, John’s hand on Sherlock’s face, so close their breath mingled and John could count every freckle across the bridge of his nose. Sherlock swallowed and he felt it, his jaw shifting under John’s fingertips. He wanted to move, close the space, taste Sherlock’s lips, dip his tongue into the deep perfect bow.

 It was everything that he wanted, and everything he’d been desperately trying to resist.

 Christ no.

John dropped his hand as if burned and he felt something deep inside him break, because he knew what Sherlock was trying to say and this was part of it. And what he was doing was wrong. “Because you never said that I could. Because I’m not like Seb Wilkes and you belong to yourself and I would never, ever, just presume that I could have you that way just because I’m an Alpha. I thought you just wanted to be friends Sherlock, and if that’s all you want then I’m happy with that, I really am.”

“And what if I’m not?”

John’s heart almost stopped. “What?” He looked up again.

“What if I’m not happy being ‘ _just friends’_ as you put it?”

“Sherlock…I…”

“This,” Sherlock snapped suddenly, pulling the chain out so John could see it, “This means nothing to me. It was agreed when I was born, and counter-signed when I presented. I had no say in it, my parents chose for me.”

“And if they hadn’t done….if you could choose for yourself, what would you do, would it still have been him?” John ran his fingers through the grass by his side absently plucking out blades rather than have to look at his friend. If that’s what they still were.

“Of course not….Of course I wouldn’t. Don’t you know me at all John?”

“I thought I did Sherlock.... maybe I was wrong. You know everything about me Sherlock, all there is to know, but you’ve kept this thing secret, kept it hidden…were you ever going to tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Not by choice though.”

“You’re angry at me…I’ve disappointed you.”

“No Sherlock, you haven’t, I’m just disappointed _for_ you.”

Liar. You want him. You want him. You want him.

“It is how it is John. There’s no point in even talking about it.”

He could barely believe this was happening. How the hell could Sherlock be so calm when his family had sold out his future from under him, from them? Because that’s what they’d become, a ‘them’. And the whole damn school knew it too.

“When do you have to leave?” Because if it were true, then Sherlock would leave like all the bonded Omega’s. John couldn’t breathe around the weight in his chest, waiting for Sherlock to answer. For all the difference it would make.

He felt sick.

“I can finish school. Anything further is up to him.”

“But what about Uni, I thought we were trying for Bart’s together?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Perhaps we still can…I don’t know.”

“But you’re not bonded…. yet.” It wasn’t a question. John would be able to tell by Sherlock’s scent.

“No, no I’m not.” Sherlock turned his head away sadly.

“But you will be soon…..When?” John asked. Like ripping off a plaster, maybe it would hurt less if he knew when he would lose him.

“This summer, after school ends.”

“Ah.”

So that was it. Any lingering fantasy he may have harboured deep inside would come to nothing anyway. Sherlock was off- limits and legal retribution would be swift and harsh for a breach of promise against both of them. Funny how knowing this, having it confirmed, only brought home to John how much he really wanted Sherlock, how he needed to be near him all the time now, with a desperation that now bordered on obsessive. But by September, when they came back to school, if Sherlock even did come back, he would be bonded. And it wouldn’t be to John, not ever. He felt his future, both their futures trickle through his fingers like sand.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock….. but we can’t, even if….”

Even if we wanted to. And I do, god, I do.

“I know.”

“We can still be friends, keep in touch.”

The words sounded hollow and meaningless.  Friends. They both knew it wouldn’t be enough.

 


	4. Worship In The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock breaks down the last of John's resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bickering and awkward first times. Sherlock is a very bossy bottom.

June:

“Oh God you’re insufferable,” Sherlock snapped in a sudden fit of pique.

They were walking to the library together to study, it was raining outside so sitting by the football field was totally out of the question, and the dark clouds seemed to mirror Sherlock’s epic black mood today. He felt weirdly strung out and wretched, and even though he should have known better, he just couldn’t stop his temper bleeding out at anyone in his proximity. And invariably, that meant John. Because John was _right there_ , and he was absolutely _glorious,_ but Sherlock couldn’t _have_ him and it just _wasn’t fair_. And why did John have to be so infuriatingly noble about this. He was only saying no to protect some ridiculously archaic notion of un-bonded omega virtue. Sherlock wasn’t asking him to bond, just to fuck him, and no one would find out if they were careful, not that he cared even if they did. And besides, he needed this, they both did surely John could see it?

“Look…..You know how much I care about you…” John broke off with a growl of frustration.

Sherlock turned his head, bright eyes flashing dangerously, and he stalked towards John like a predator. It was an effort of will not to reach out and grab him, to pull him in the rest of the way and end this ridiculous dance, pulled into each other’s orbit, drawn together but always apart. Sherlock inhaled, breathing in deep. John’s scent was so delicious today. Oh…. _Oh_.

“Hmm, I see .…” Sherlock purred softly, his face only inches from John’s now and reading every expression that crossed it. Desire, frustration, pain, regret all passed in the blink of an eye. “But?....Come on John, spit it out.” He was being cruel, he knew that. The sudden proximity made John sway where he stood, and he stepped back a pace, which only made Sherlock move forward again, chasing his body heat. He really, really shouldn’t be doing this, they both knew where the line was. Or did they? Sherlock wasn’t so sure any more. And there was nowhere left for John to go. His shoulders touched brick, and he stopped with one hand held out in front of him in warning.

“Piss off Sherlock, stop being such an arse.” John pressed both palms firmly against Sherlock’s chest and pushed him back half-heartedly. Sherlock caught his wrists with a burst of surprising strength, blunt nails scraping John’s skin. And then he let go, abruptly, grimacing in pain. He bent at the waist, and clutched at his stomach with a groan.  “John….heat not imminent….here now,” he panted as his gut twisted painfully and a warm wet pulse of slick soaked through his underwear, trickling down his thigh.

“Are…are you sure?” John leaned forward carefully and sniffed behind Sherlock’s ear, drawing back again abruptly. “Oh Christ…yeah right, of course you’re sure.”

 The slightest touch of John’s nose to his skin sent another sharp stab of pain coursing through him. A strangled sound rose from his throat. He couldn’t even form words, and all that came out was,“Nngh.”

John looked torn. They usually had more warning than this, heats every four weeks like clockwork – Sherlock’s increasingly acerbic tongue, increase in appetite and restless energy - or perhaps they’d wilfully ignored the signs. “What do I do Sherlock?” he stammered, “I shouldn’t be here…okay, never mind - we need to go, get you into bed, right now.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock said softly, flashing a brief, weak smile as his stomach lurched again.

“This isn’t the time to joke Sherlock.”

“I really wasn’t joking.”

Not knowing how to respond, John grabbed him by the arm and yanked him bodily down the corridor, Sherlock trailed after him helplessly, half-walking, half running through the sixth form unit then outside across the quad towards the student accommodation block. It was early afternoon and most students were still in lessons thank god, but a few curious glances were thrown in their direction as they reached the doors to the Omega wing. John slammed his hand down hard against the intercom.

“No need,” Sherlock gasped as he fumbled in his pocket for his pass card, ignoring the tinny voice that asked him, “Yes dear?”

He swiped through the lock, the door clicked open, and he pushed hard against the heavy oak panel.

“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” He stood just beyond the threshold, and Sherlock on the other side. John stopped the door closing with his foot.

“No.” And it was true, he wasn’t okay and he wouldn’t be. Each heat was worse than the last, the aching want inside him that scraped at the edge of his sanity, until he felt flayed alive and still completely unsatisfied. He needed John, it had to be John…just this once. He didn’t care about some ridiculous promise to someone he’d only met a handful of times. Someone so insignificant he could barely recall the colour of his eyes. John’s were blue, the deepest blue, with tiny flecks of brown around the edges. He reached back through the gap and grasped John’s hand. “Come with me this time…please…I meant what I said, I’m not joking.” He could sense John wavering. “No one knows about the promise ring outside the two families, and there’s no bond yet.”

“But the school….”

“Doesn’t know.”

“And your Alpha?”

“He’s not my Alpha, not yet. And is fucking his way around Cambridge according to Mycroft, and not my problem right now.”

“But what if I?....” John’s voice was hesitant, his resistance balanced on a knife-edge.

“You won’t….I know you John, you can do this, you won’t bite me….I trust you.”

Not that Sherlock cared if John did lose control.

John couldn’t pull his eyes from Sherlock’s hand, to where their fingers were twined together in a tight, vice-like grip. “And you want this…you really want this, want me? Jesus Sherlock… I’ve never even kissed you.”

“Oh god, and that’s your only objection?…” Sherlock yanked John’s arm and pulled him through the door locking them both inside the private omega wing as it snapped shut behind them with a bang. He pressed forward blindly, eyes still adjusting to the dark, controlled interior, finding John’s face on instinct. He tilted his head to the side and leaned down as John rose up, lips pressing softly together in a light, tender kiss. And it was…oh, Sherlock thought, so much softer than he could ever have imagined. John’s lips were perpetually chapped from biting on them constantly, so he’d thought they’d be rough and scratchy, not smooth and slightly damp, and moulding against his own mouth so perfectly. He thought it would be frantic and desperate, filled with months of pent-up need, not this slow and careful dance, John cupping the nape of Sherlock’s neck with a gentle hand, sliding his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s mouth and drawing back again as if waiting for permission to go further. And still he felt breathless, drowning already. It was too much, and not enough at all. He parted his lips and gave in to it. “John….please.”

“Not here,” John panted, pulling back. His eyes were almost black as they roamed Sherlock’s face. “If we do this…everything changes, you know that don’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

~*~

Cool white cotton sheets, soft against his prickling skin. Sherlock sighed and stretched out languidly, burying his face in the pillows a little as he waited for John to stop hiding in the bathroom.

“We do this all the time,” he called, “What’s so different now?”

“We’re not drunk, we’re not sleeping and you’ve got no bloody clothes on…how’s that for different?” came John’s slightly muffled reply.

“Details, details,” he huffed, squirming a little on his front. “Do hurry up John.”

“Christ, do you have to be so bossy…I’m coming.” John finally emerged after what felt like an eternity in a ripped grey tank and shorts, just a Sherlock said, “Yes, I’d rather hoped that….” He broke off suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “For god’s sake John, what on earth are you wearing? You can take those off right now.”

“Like I said. Bossy.” John huffed as he snapped off the light and plunged the room into darkness. The bed dipped at his side as John slipped beneath the covers alongside him.

Their legs brushed and Sherlock shivered. “I’ve seen it all before John…you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Just give me this Sherlock, alright? I’ve never actually done it before….well, not with an Omega…”

“Or a man?” Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh. “Well neither have I so I guess we’re almost even.

That’s unless you’d count an eight inch length of moulded silicone… which I don’t by the way, just in case you were wondering.”

“Could you shut up now? It’s sort of hard to kiss you when won’t stop talking.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock breathed fondly, catching hold of John’s t-shirt in the dark and dragging it up the length of his torso. John dutifully lifted his arms and Sherlock dragged it over his head, he threw it away into the centre of the room and touched warm skin before sliding his palms down over waist and stomach and hips. “Okay?” he asked quietly, hooking his fingers in the elastic of the waistband. John nodded against his shoulder and drew in a shuddering breath.

“I’m supposed to be looking after you,” he said, letting out a soft ‘ah’ as his cock slipped free and sprang out from his body, heavy and wet, so hot against Sherlock’s thigh.

“And you will.” Sherlock said, turning fully on his side to face him, and ran his palm from John’s bent knee, up the back of his thigh to his arse. He wanted to remember this, every inch of his skin how it felt to just be held and kissed, but it couldn’t last long. Soon, he would neither think straight nor act rationally, when the need became too much and all that were left would be basic animal instinct and need. Nothing tender, nothing careful, they would tear at each other to the point of exhaustion, sleep a little, eat a little and do it all over again until the end of his heat. Or so he’d been told. Toys were no substitute and writhing around in unsatisfied agony was hardly a reliable comparison. But this was John, his John, who was trembling in his arms as if he was afraid.

John shifted in his arms and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck. “I don’t want to hurt you, please promise that you’ll tell me if I…”

“Shh…” Sherlock pressed a shaking finger to John’s mouth. “You won’t.”

He was sure. This was right.

John held him and they kissed for a while, just pressing together, the soft wet sounds of lips and tongue and wandering hands that lit each nerve on fire. It was enough for a while, until his stomach contracted painfully again and he pulled away gasping, and flushed hot as the sheets grew damp beneath their thighs. He bit his lip to stifle a moan.

“Sherlock?”

He shook his head mutely, scooting back across the bed until his back touched the wall.

“Sherlock don’t, it’s okay.” John stretched across the space between them and gently stroked his cheek. “It’s fine if you want me to go…if this is too much…I don’t mind.”

“I couldn’t bear it if you left me…I want you so much John it hurts.”

“Well get back here you bloody fool.”

Sherlock surged forward blindly and John’s arms wrapped tight around his waist. “What do you need to do love, just tell me and I’ll help you, I promise.”

Sherlock twisted in the circle of John’s arms and lay face down in the pillows on his stomach. He was shaking, just a few small tremors at first which rippled up and down the length of his body, then harder, as he struggled up onto his hands and knees on the mattress. He could barely get the words out. “Like this.” John’s hands skimmed down his spine and he shuddered violently, his slight arms ready to crumple already from the effort of supporting his weight, however slight. John caught him around the middle, and eased him down gently to the bed. “Can we do it this way…I want to see your face.”

“Oh.”

John knew, John always knew. How clever of him, Sherlock thought, and the tremors subsided as he let himself relax. So tense, so scared and there was no need, not with John here to catch him. Sherlock stretched out fully on his back and lifted his leg when John tapped him on the thigh. John cupped a warm hand between his arse and the bed and pushed him up a little to ease a pillow underneath him. “God, you’re so perfect,” he said, kissing the sensitive skin along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh trailing up with his tongue those final precious inches to the juncture of his groin, and still he didn’t stop, burying his nose in the dark thick hair and trailing down again to lap at his balls. Sherlock squirmed. Never had he felt this good.

And then John stopped. Hot breath tickled his leg and actually whined, bucking his hips at the brief loss of contact. John pressed a steadying hand to his hip. “Sherlock, don’t we need something? This isn’t exactly safe.”

“Second drawer,” Sherlock stuttered, “Condoms and spermicide. Is that safe enough do you think?”

He felt John move, heard the drawer rattle, heard him root around the contents. A small tube of gel plopped down on the mattress beside him swiftly followed by two foil packets, and a folded sheet of paper from the box. John reached for that first and squinted as he angled it towards the light from

the window, the curtains just open a crack.

Sherlock growled in frustration. “I’m not completely clueless John, they’re designed to expand with the knot.”

“I thought these things were banned…wasn’t there a law thing passed?”

“Unless a pregnancy would severely compromise the Omega’s mental or physical health…yes, I know. Mycroft commandeered them ‘for research’, but they ended up packed in my suitcase this year. You can make of that what you will.”

“What on earth does he think you get up to at school?”

“Obviously what we’re doing right now.”

“Oh, so…. I should…..?”

“Yes, you really should please.”

“Okay, so I’ll….” Sherlock heard the rustle of foil and the tear as John grasped it in his teeth and ripped it cleanly along the outside edge. A hand fumbled briefly between tensed thighs.

“How does it feel.”

“I dunno….a bit tight.”

He heard an elastic snap as John tugged right down to the base of his erection.

“What about this?” John brandished the tube of spermicide.

“Slick it over the condom, call it insurance…just in case it splits.”

“Fuck that’s cold,” John hissed, spreading it down his length, giving his cock a few quick strokes for good measure.

“For god’s sake John, you’re bloody killing me here.”

It wasn’t exactly romantic. Messy and awkward would be a better description for how things had gone so far. But that was before. Before the first gentle press of John’s fingers at his hole, and Sherlock’s audible moan as he easily took them in. That was before John fucked him with his hand, quickly replacing two fingers with three, and slowly pumped them in and out until Sherlock was ready to scream. Before John curled them inside Sherlock’s body, seeking out that bundle of nerves stroking and pressing in a swift relentless rhythm, and then he did scream, and a palm clamped over his mouth to muffle the desperate noises that crawled up his throat as he begged John to screw him to the mattress.

John was an evil genius. John was a miracle, John was an angel and a demon sent to taunt him. Sherlock rode out the delicious waves of pleasure not believing he’d endured this for months on his own. And it wasn’t enough. He knew what he needed. And just as John started some delicious contortion with fingers and tongue he gasped, “Stop!”

“Not good?” John’s head bobbed up between his legs again, chin glistening with pre-come and slick.

“My balls feel like they’re going to explode, I need you to fuck me…now!” he said urgently, bucking his hips up in emphasis.

“Definitely bossy…how in hell did you turn out Omega?”

“And I resent the implication….the submissive Omega is a myth designed to coddle the fragile Alpha ego.”

“Fragile eh?” John smirked, pulling on his legs and coaxing Sherlock to lift them and drape them over his shoulders. Sherlock moaned as he felt the firm insistent press of the blunt head of a cock against his hole. It was big, so much bigger than any of the toys he’d used to ease the ache in previous heats, and just when he thought it couldn’t possibly fit the tight muscle gave and the head slipped slowly inside him. He’d expected the pain and the sharp stinging stretch as he adjusted to the intrusion. John held still, hovering over him giving him plenty of time to adjust, his brow damp with sweat, shaking a little with the effort it took to hold himself back when all that he wanted was to move. Sherlock gripped his forearms and tried an experimental thrust. John hissed, another inch sliding inwards with the movement and emboldened, Sherlock thrust again, a little bit harder. John’s elbows gave way and he fell onto Sherlock, momentarily stealing his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he huffed.

“Just move,” Sherlock urged, sucking in some precious air and raising his arms to cling onto the headboard. “Fuck me hard, I won’t break.”

John wound his arms around the back of Sherlock’s shoulders. With one swift thrust he pushed the rest of the way inside. Sherlock squealed, there was no other word to describe the embarrassing sound that he made, John tipped up his chin to catch his mouth in a harsh bruising kiss. John rolled his hips teasingly, each movement sending sparks across his vision as he threw back his head, crushing his skull into the pillows. John picked up the pace and sucked hungrily on a sensitive nipple, flicking with his tongue and nipping with his teeth. Sherlock lowered one hand, tangling his fingers in the short blond layers of John’s hair. He pulled and John growled, sucking down firmly on the smooth white skin of his chest. He arched up, cock sliding against John’s belly, and he came with a strangled cry, shooting warm white ribbons of come between their bodies. And then he felt it. The stutter in John’s hips as he gradually slowed, the fullness of John’s cock pulsating inside him, and as it slid back on each pass, the bulge of his rapidly swelling knot stretched Sherlock’s hole impossibly wider. John cried out, burying his head in the pillow, Sherlock pinned beneath his body. He panted around a mouthful of thick, down-filled cotton with his nose pressed in hard against the side of Sherlock’s neck. In the heat of the moment he’d forgotten. But John, amazingly had taken care of them both. The effort it had taken not to bite him, not to claim him was etched on every inch of his body. John was like a tightly coiled spring, he was exhausted. But he’d done as he’d promised, there wouldn’t be a bond. The rush of disappointment shocked him, but before he could process what this meant, with one final grunt he slammed home, and when John tried to pull back again, the knot caught fast inside him and it held, tying them together in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Delicious warmth spread through him and for one breathless, heart-stopping moment he thought the condom might’ve burst. His legs slipped down and flopped weakly onto the bed and John rolled them together until they lay face to face on their sides. He grinned, sheepishly. “How long does this bit last?”

“Ten minutes or so, perhaps a little longer,” Sherlock sighed. His eyes began to flicker. John shifted a little, careful not to hurt him, stroked his back softly, tracing his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s spine. His eyelids drifted closed and soft lips pressed against his forehead. John’s whisper was the last sound he heard, “I’ve got you now Sherlock….just sleep.”


	5. Small Moments of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's life is about to change, but not in the way he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet this time!

Saturday 15th August:

Sherlock opened his eyes and groaned. He must have dozed off again, lying on his bed with the covers pushed right down to the bottom. He’d felt a little off since the moment he got up that morning and shortly before lunch, had stripped down to his boxer shorts, opened the window and crawled back into bed again. The thin summer drapes hung limp and unmoving, with not even a breeze to cool the stifling heat inside the room. Still groggy and disoriented he fumbled on the nightstand for his phone. Half past four. A pressed blue suit, white shirt and navy tie, hung ready on the front of his wardrobe door. Oh god, he needed to get ready, the guests were arriving at six. And Mycroft would be home by now, he’d rung last night to tell them he’d secured a ten o’clock flight and would be back by mid-afternoon at the latest to help with any final preparations.

Sherlock sat up slowly, and swung his legs out of bed, curling his toes into the soft, plush carpet beneath his feet. But still it was too quick, and his head swam with a sudden wave of dizziness. He gripped the edge of the bed, and told himself this was ridiculous. Anxiety was a useless waste of energy. This day had been set for months now, and nothing and no one could change things now.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand and he snatched it up again. With one hand on the mattress for balance, he thumbed the lock screen aside and pressed his thumb against the message icon.

_Can’t stop thinking about you. Miss you so much already. John x_

John. Oh God.

Sherlock’s mouth filled with water and he flung the phone down on the bed like it had burnt him. Not now, he thought wildly. I can’t do this now.

His stomach lurched again, and with a horrible sense of the inevitable he stumbled to his bathroom, only making it as far as the sink before the wave of nausea hit. The sour taste of bile rose up his throat and filled his mouth. He retched and spat, over and over again until his stomach muscles ached, and perspiration dripped from his forehead. He legs started to shake and give way, so he lowered himself down and sat on the floor, hands clasped around his knees rocking gently back and forward.

Not this, please god, not this.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock closed the toilet lid, pulled up his underwear and sat down again breathing raggedly. His stomach still hurt, the muscles wrenched from the seemingly endless need to vomit and his throat felt raw too, mouth still sour with bile and despite the fact he was virtually naked his body was tacky with sweat. A slim white stick dangled loosely between his fingertips as he counted out the seconds with his eyes closed.

One twenty, two minutes.

He opened his eyes.

The tiny blue cross in the centre of the stick was the last damning evidence, a final confirmation of what he already knew – it was positive.

On shaking legs he padded back through to the bedroom and picked up his phone from where he’d tossed it on the bed. He pressed down the call button, holding his breath as he waited for the line to connect. It rang out five times before he heard the familiar click at the opposite end.

_“Hello? Sherlock?”_

“John? Are you alone?” he sat down on the bed, shuffling over until his spine pressed back against the headboard.

_“Yeah I am, I’m in my room, what’s up?”_

He heard the creak of a mattress as John shifted too, waiting for him to answer.

“John…I…”, Sherlock faltered. He had no idea how to say this. What exactly did he say? How much he loved him, how sorry he was, how both their lives were ruined? How could he possibly say all those things and hurt John even more than he had already?  It was supposed to be over, finished, done. But Christ, it was killing him just a little more every day since school ended, and Sherlock knew in his bones it would never get better. Because John was everything, the half that made the whole.  

 _“Sherlock? Are you okay? What’s wrong? Oh my god it’s today isn’t it, I forgot– please don’t do_ _anything stupid, we’ll work it out I promise.”_

“What if I already have?” he bit his lip, worrying the soft flesh until it split.

 _“What do you mean? Fuck - have you taken something?”_ John gasped. “ _You said you wouldn’t any_ _more, please tell me you haven’t.”_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry.

_“Sherlock  please – you’re scaring me now  – you have to answer.”_

“I love you,” he blurted, before he could stop himself.

_“I love you too – but please tell me what’s going on.”_

A hot tear spilled over and ran down his cheek. “Don’t be angry – you have to promise me John.”

_“Oh God, now I am scared – but okay, I promise, whatever it is just tell me, you have to tell me.”_

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Not even a breath could be heard on the other end of the line.

“John…John? Are you there?” A cold prickle of fear washed over him.

_“I’m here. Fucking hell – are you sure?”_

“Quite sure,” Sherlock sighed, deeply, letting out the breath he’d held - it hitched in his throat and he slid down the pillows, curling into a ball with one arm wrapped tightly round his knees. If he closed his eyes too, he could imagine that John was here with him in bed.

_“So…. I’m gonna be a dad?”_

“Yes, it would appear so.”

_“Sherlock?”_

“What?”

_“You know how much I love you don’t you?”_

“Even now?”

_“Especially now - How much trouble are we in?”_

“I don’t know yet – quite a lot I think. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes blurred with tears again, the fine golden chain felt like a noose around his neck.

 _“Don’t be.”_ John said softly, “ _It was my choice too_ …. _We’ll be okay Sherlock – I promise.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the clock is ticking down as John rushes to Sherlock's side. But is it the reception he expects?


	6. Fault Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must know John, how truly am sorry, for both of you, I wish it could be otherwise.” Mycroft looked grave. He even sounded like he meant it, John thought - almost. “You must understand, there was never a guarantee that the family would relinquish their claim on my brother despite his indiscretion…all I can say, is if a loophole exists I assure you I will find it.” He lowered his eyes again, brushed non-existent lint from his thigh.
> 
> “It’s just….I promised….”
> 
> “As did I. You should never make promises John,” Mycroft interrupted. “If ever there was a lesson to be learned from all this…..”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trouble this chapter gave me - it just wouldn't behave! But I've made a decision to stop faffing and post it, so I hope it reads okay!

John stepped out into the cool April night and shivered. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be cold, after four long months in the sweltering heat of Afghanistan, his skin perpetually slick with sweat and a tacky film of terracotta dust. The army fatigues he wore growing slowly darker through the course of the day until the entire camp was awash with the sour stink of unwashed men packed into too small a space. God bless the British weather.

It felt surreal to be back here, when only hours before, the Merlin HC3 had risen from the ground to spirit him away in darkness in a swirl of heat and sand.

No-one had told him why.

No-one needed to.    

Mycroft had promised them both, that when the time came, when Sherlock went into labour, John could come home.  As if that made up for what would come after, when he’d have to leave Sherlock again… _them_ …and return to the melting heat of the desert. He’d marked off every day they’d been apart  from a calendar he kept by his bed, right next to the tiny square scan picture of a thirteen week foetus tucked into the frame of a photo Mike had snapped of them, John’s arm slung carelessly across Sherlock’s shoulders, sitting on some grotty old sofa at a long forgotten party one weekend. Sherlock looked radiant, he, by contrast looked terrible, eyes red-rimmed from one drink too many and hair sticking all up on end. Sherlock’s fault most likely, he did like something to grab when they kissed.

John remembered so vividly the last time he’d seen him, bundled up against the cold of a freezing January day, standing stubbornly on an airport runway, with the buttons of his long grey coat straining over the swell of his stomach. The touch of his freezing cold lips and the stickiness of tears and snotty noses, trying to steal one last desperate kiss until his brother had forcibly pulled them apart. But Sherlock had clung on fiercely, with sharp teeth nipping at his mouth and long fingers dragging through the layers of John’s freshly shorn hair that he’d told John he hated, that it was much too short to get a grip and hold onto. John felt his skin pull taught and then tear, tasted the copper tang of blood in his mouth, felt the sting of an open cut as he pressed the tip of his tongue into the wound staring from the window of the plane.

A heavy weight settled in his chest that day, forced to watch as Sherlock grew smaller and smaller, drifting further and further away until he blurred into nothing, lost behind the sheen of condensation on the glass from John’s breath. He was so scared he’d forget. Sherlock’s smile, the way his hair flopped down across his forehead, all the secret dips and hollows where skin stretched too tight across bone, and John had tasted each one of them. The way his skin smelled like summer rain during a thunderstorm, the soft plush curves of his impossibly gorgeous arse, and those legs, so long and lithe wrapped tightly around his waist.

The night before, their last night together, in a snug, warm nest of cotton sheets and  quilted throws in Sherlock’s bed, breath turned hot and humid, they’d pressed together just like that, close but never quite close enough. He’d spread Sherlock out, traced shaking fingertips along each new purpling line where the skin of his fast swelling belly had given and stretched his delicate frame. Just around the edges, in an arc around the pubic bone and fanning up around the pelvis to his waist. Sherlock’s arm thrown across his face, squirming with embarrassment as John bent down to kiss each one, and followed the path of his fingers with his tongue….

~*~

_Sherlock lifted his arm, just a little and looked down at him, cheeks flushed pink with heat. ‘You can’t possibly find those attractive, I look positively hideous.’_

_John lifted up his head for a second to gaze into those impossible eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How can you think that?’ he whispered reverently, “You’re beautiful, each and every part of you….all of this…. Christ Sherlock,” he faltered, “what am I supposed to do without you, without both of you?”_

_Sherlock reached down blindly with his free hand and grasped John’s fingers tightly. ‘Stay.’_

_‘You know I can’t.’ John’s breath hitched and he buried his face in the soft furry mound between his pregnant lover’s legs. The palm still pressed to Sherlock’s belly gave a twitch. A demand for attention. His child. Their child. Adding to the leaden weight inside his chest._

_‘We can fight this,’ Sherlock’s breath came quick and shallow, a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘There has to be a way.’_

But Sherlock was wrong. And Sherlock was never, ever wrong.

By then it was already over. And though neither wanted to say it, they knew that this was goodbye.

Fourteen weeks basic training completed, then John was on a fast-track out of England for his first tour of duty at Camp Bastion: Private Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusilier’s.

~*~

Both feet had barely touched tarmac when the sleek black car appeared around the side of the metal hangar. It drew to a halt ten metres away and John paused for a moment, assessing, and shifted his weight to adjust the heavy pack across his shoulders. He’d expected as much, and months of separation had done little to quell the boiling pit of anger buried deep inside his bones at the very thought of Mycroft Holmes, for stealing these last few precious months from them both, for making Sherlock ashamed of himself, for making John hate himself because _he’d done that to him,_ rewritten his future, ruined his education. Sherlock never made it back to school, neither of them did, instead they’d locked Sherlock away in that dusty old house of theirs away from prying eyes like some sort of dirty little secret while he had been expelled in disgrace.  

Being Alpha meant little.  What mattered as always were money, class and birth-right, and in their eyes he had none. 

John burned with the urge to walk past the waiting car, out of spite, out of pure stubborn pride, because god forbid if he forgot for one second the deep debt of gratitude he owed to the families of those he’d betrayed. _Both families are willing to forgo any criminal charges on the strict condition that you enlist voluntarily with immediate effect._

But he couldn't. Sherlock was waiting and this would be the quickest way to get to him.

The door popped open before he even got there and he slid onto a blessedly Mycroft-free warm leather seat and placed his bag on the floor between his feet. The car smelled of money and power, with muted cream upholstery a soft black pile carpet, and highly polished walnut inlays. A tinted glass screen separated the driver from the passengers when needed and as John sat back, shifting a little self-consciously in his shabby faded civvies, it drew back with a clunk and a whine.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey John, welcome home,” Mycroft said, his familiar drawling voice addressed him from the passenger seat up front. John merely grunted in response. Too much to hope he’d be spared this apparently. But Mycroft it seemed had already anticipated this less than glowing reception. “Come now, I’m hardly the enemy here, you must know that by now. And how many men do you suppose are allowed to come home mid-tour to witness the birth of their child?”

John clenched his fists tight, glaring at the back of an auburn head. “I just want to see him … _now_ Mycroft.”

Mycroft half-turned in his seat to face him. “All in good time.”

The casual way he responded made John’s fists itch. Always Mycroft’s way, his decisions, his rules.

 Well, John had had enough. And this wasn’t and game he was willing to play. Not anymore, when so much was at stake.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “We don’t have _time_ …I have to be with him…if I miss this Mycroft I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Mycroft smiled. It looked forced and unnatural, and didn’t meet his eyes. “You mistake me John, I have no wish to delay you unnecessarily, I merely meant to suggest that perhaps you take this opportunity to refresh and reflect….a shower and a change of clothes perhaps?”

“And what if I say no?”

“It would hardly do to come all this way and be turned back at the door so to speak, now would it?”

John opened his mouth to bite back and then paused. He hated that Mycroft had a point.

“He’ll know,” John answered sullenly, “That I chose not to go to him first.” He rubbed his palms down his thighs, they were starting to sweat again, and yanked down the zip of his parka. The window at his side slid down an inch without having touched it and a steady stream of cool night air blew in.

“Undoubtedly,” said Mycroft with a nod. “Although I’m sure the alternative would be much, much worse.”

“Who else knows?” John’s head snapped up again, and he leaned across the dividing space between them, fingers clasped over the back of Mycroft’s seat. “The Trevor’s – do they know – that I’m home, that I’m back?”

“I took the liberty of informing your family of course. But no-one else of significance is aware of your presence in the country I can assure you. You’re not in any danger as yet.” Mycroft sighed heavily, sounding almost bored. “Although you are aware….?”

“Yes, I’m aware.” John snapped. “Your letters made it quite clear thanks. That I’m not supposed to see him again…after.”

“You must know John, how truly am sorry, for both of you, I wish it could be otherwise.”  Mycroft looked grave. He even sounded like he meant it, John thought - almost. “You must understand, there was never a guarantee that the family would relinquish their claim on my brother despite his indiscretion…all I can say, is if a loophole exists I assure you I will find it.” He lowered his eyes again, brushed non-existent lint from his thigh.

“It’s just…I promised…”

“As did I. You should never make promises John,” Mycroft interrupted. “If ever there was a lesson to be learned from all this…” The words hung unfinished in the air as John sank back on the seat again and the glass screen slowly slid shut, finally blocking Mycroft from view.

John scrubbed his hands across his face in frustration, moving up to his temples and fisting tightly in the short blond layers. He’d hoped it would be different once the baby arrived, but nine months of wrangling had achieved nothing more than his exile and the stubborn determination of the Trevor family to hold the Holme’s to the original terms of the contract. Their sole concession had been to wait until Sherlock delivered before the bond would take place, and after that…. John would lose him, lose them both.

He wouldn’t survive it a second time.

~*~

“I’m here for Sherlock Holmes please,” he gasped, “John…John Watson.”

He was almost out of breath from the sprint across the carpark. As soon as Mycroft’s car had slowed to a crawl he’d leapt out, slammed the door shut and ran like a maniac across the asphalt. His hair was still damp from the shower and the t-shirt under his jumper clung to barely dried skin.

The nurse on reception looked up, eyeing him with suspicion and glanced down screen showing that night’s admissions on the maternity wing. “He was admitted a couple of hours ago, but I’m afraid I’ll need to see some I.D before I can let you go through sir,” she smiled apologetically.

“You’re kidding aren’t you?” John patted down his pockets even though he knew they were empty. “Look, I don’t have anything on me right now, I just got back from active duty. You have to let me through, it’s my baby he’s having…please.”

“The cert with your bond status would do. Oh…” she paused, looking down at her screen and back to John’s face again, “Mr Holmes has been registered un-bonded.”

John gritted his teeth. “Um yeah, well, it’s sort of complicated…but I’m meant to be here, you have to believe me.”

He was hovering on the edge of hysteria now, and she could see that. “Just let me check with the midwife on duty just in case someone left a message.” She picked up a phone to make an inter-departmental call, and paused with her hand across the mouthpiece. “We just have to be careful with the un-bonded dear, we’ve had some problems in the past with false acquisition. I’m sorry, if you’ll just take a seat over there for a moment.” She pointed across the hall to a neatly kept waiting area with a row of neat blue chairs and a small television showing a health and lifestyle programme. But he was far too keyed up to sit still, and so he paced up and down, chewing on his thumbnail. What the hell was she implying?

“John.”

Mycroft appeared through the automatic doors. He looked decidedly ruffled for once. “What are you doing out here?”

“They won’t let me in. I don’t have any I.D. or papers.”

“Ah,” Mycroft frowned, “Just wait here a moment…I did leave word.” John was sick of waiting. Months of separation and thousands of miles had done nothing to counter the burning ache inside him. He sank down heavily in a blue plastic chair and buried his head in his hands. Sherlock was so close. John took a deep shuddering breath through his nose, heart pounding as a subtle honeyed scent hit the back of his throat.

Mycroft coughed politely at his side. “Down the corridor, second left, Suite 3.”

John shot from his seat with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

“John?”

He spun round again.

“What may happen after the birth…I cannot guarantee the conclusion will be favourable…”

He didn’t stay to listen to the rest, to Mycroft’s thinly veiled warning, didn’t want to think of how all his could end, he just turned and thundered on, feet slapping on the polished tile surface, ignoring stern glances from passing members of staff, . His pulse beat hard and fast in his ears. Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock, the only thought in his head now.

Skidding to a halt outside a wide white door, he tentatively pushed it open. The sharp, metallic squeak made him wince as he slipped inside the room, into the dimly lit interior and the soft clicks and bleeps of machinery.

John’s breath caught in his chest. There he was. Sherlock, who filled rooms with the force of irresistible presence, looking oh so small and delicate on a small narrow bed in the centre of the sterile delivery suite. His head was pressed back against a thick stack of pillows, and his knees were drawn up and spread wide, a thin sheet tented across with his feet flat down. John could just glimpse the flex of bare toes where they curled into the mattress, wiggling with impatience, a constant movement where the rest of his body lay still.

His turned his head as the door snapped shut, bright eyes widening in delight. “John?” His voice was low and hoarse at first. “John!” he gasped again, struggling to push himself up from the bed, plaintive and wracked with emotion this time. He was here, really here, and this was real, it was happening. John was back and they were together again, and he could touch his soft skin, taste his lips, drag his fingers through those tangled dark curls, everything he’d dreamed about, everything he’d missed in these past long, heart-breaking months they’d been apart.

Not willing to wait another second, John crossed the room in three quick strides. “Hey there…weren’t thinking of doing this thing without me now, I hope?” His mouth stretched wide in an uncontrollable grin as he hovered over bed, pushing Sherlock’s hair back and gently kissing his forehead in welcome when what he really wanted to do was climb right on up there and lay chest to back the way they slept together at night. But those nights, and sleeping too, were a far off dream right now.

Sherlock blinked up at him, “John…I didn’t know…we weren’t sure…Mycroft said he would try and I _told_ him we should wait but…”

“Don’t…don’t think about that…its fine now Sherlock, it doesn’t matter, I’m here.”

Sherlock sighed and nodded, melting into the gentle pressure at his scalp, until he tensed completely, body gone tight as a bow-string and face contorted in pain, “Mmmm….aahh….” he hummed, and pressed his lips together into a tight white line. His fingers untangled from the covers and he reached out to the side, grasping blindly to find John’s hand. He found it, and gripped it so tight John winced as the bones of his knuckles rubbed painfully together.

The midwife glanced up from her post in the corner. She wandered towards them, clucking her tongue in sympathy. “Getting sore again is it lovey…just a little more and we’ll get you on the gas and air, okay?” Sherlock jerked his head in acknowledgment and her eyes flicked up to John, “A stubborn one you’ve got yourself dear, been cursing you to high heaven for not being here…but still…he’s doing really well.”

“I am _right here,”_ Sherlock snapped through the waves of obvious discomfort. John flexed his fingers as he set his hand free, and they tingled as the blood began to flow again, freely. “And if this is doing well, then just kill me right now. John please tell her to kindly _go away_.”

“Hello,” John smirked, “Back with us again?”

“Fuck off.” Sherlock snatched his hand away, and seconds later another wave hit him, but this time something changed, as his eyes flashed in panic.

“What’s wrong?” John looked to the midwife for some small sign of reassurance. She clicked her tongue again, and moved towards the end of the bed, and when she tried to ease the sheet away, Sherlock hauled back on it to keep it in place. With a vague nod to herself she gathered up a thick wad of bed roll, flipped up the end of the sheet and pressed it between Sherlock’s legs. The wad was folded, dropped in a bin by her side and a fresh pair of gloves pulled out of a box. “Nothing’s wrong love, right as rain.”

John’s brow creased in confusion and Sherlock turned his head away. “Has anyone else ever…?” he grimaced worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Almost every single time,” she smiled back at him, “All that pressure down below…”

It was like some sort of secret childbirth code that John just wasn’t privy too, and a little disconcerting to feel that neither seemed inclined to enlighten him. Sherlock just grunted in response and winced as she did something else down there, hands working deftly undercover of the thin blue sheet.

Feeling lost again, John cleared his throat, “How much longer do you think?”

She smiled, “Well, this little one seems in quite a hurry for a first born. Another hour and chances are, it’ll all be done and dusted.”

A faint stab of panic shot through him. A quick glance to the right showed that Sherlock hadn’t noticed. The last thing John wanted was to worry him. “Wow…god…I just got here just in time then?”

“No.”

It was Sherlock that had spoken. John’s heart dropped down into his stomach, knowing only too well what was coming. The only surprise was that it hadn’t happened sooner, the minute he’d walked in the room, in fact.

“You weren’t _just in time_ , though, were you John…you landed at least an hour ago…you’ve been in Mycroft’s town car, and the Westminster house, the guest room on the second floor to be exact. Those aren’t the clothes you travelled in, there are traces of soap in your hairline, showered in haste then, you’ve shaved, applied product had two cups of earl grey tea and wholemeal toast with apricot jam. Crumbs,” he finished with a huff, waving his hand imperiously, “where your top tucks into your jeans.”

John’s chin dropped, and sure enough a tiny shower of crumbs sat accusingly below his midriff. He brushed them off, cheeks aflame.

The midwife stared between them. “Well…and just when you think you’ve heard everything…”

There was clearly no point in denial. “I did try and tell him…that you’d notice. But you know how Mycroft is, he said that I had to…” Sherlock cut him off with a growl.

“So what?…you thought that you’d …you’d just go _home_ first?” he hissed and pulled John in closer, sniffing behind his ear where the hair at his nape was still damp. “I have _literally_ , just _shit_ myself in front of a _stranger_ and you just popped home for a shower so you could _smell nice_? What exactly is your point?”

It couldn’t have been worse, he felt like such a dick. Sherlock   _knew,_ exactly as John had predicted he would, and Mycroft had known he would and still he had insisted.

“Leave,” Sherlock snapped and pushed John backwards, away from him, and next words from his mouth were like a punch to the gut. “It’s what you do best.” He crossed his arms, and turned his head to the side, staring blindly at the blank beige wall on the other side of the room.

John’s neck felt hot and tight, it was hard to breathe around the hard painful lump that had lodged in his throat. He reeled back from the bed, away from Sherlock fighting the urge to get down on his knees. He wanted to beg, scream, shout, anything. The past long weeks had been torture without him. Couldn’t Sherlock see, didn’t he care anymore? Their child was about to come into the world, and the last thing he wanted after weeks of separation was to fight. Space, give him space John thought. Pushing Sherlock now when he was in such pain would clearly be a mistake. He held his hands up in surrender. Sherlock caught the movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head back to glare at him. “Right,” John said, “Have it your way, I’m gone. This was obviously a bad idea, fuck knows why I bothered. I shouldn’t have come back at all.”

Oh god, he didn’t mean it. Please let him know it wasn’t true. But the words had tumbled out much harsher than intended and Sherlock’s answering scowl quickly crumpled as another contraction overtook him. “Fine, if that’s the way it is” he howled, “See if I care…get out.”

And so he did. John slumped down to the floor in the corridor outside the delivery suite and buried his head in his arms. Christ, what a ridiculous thing to be fighting over. He’d tried so hard to be the strong one through all this, for both of them, but to come back home and see that cold flash of hatred in Sherlock’s eyes over something so stupid, was unbearable. And after months of worry and waiting John finally reached his tipping point and broke, and a burst of hot tears cascaded down his cheeks. He let them. Rolling off his chin, they splashed down onto his dark blue jeans. Why the hell had he thought things would ever work out between them? You’re a stupid fucking idiot Watson, he’s a Holmes, what made you think that you’d ever be good enough. But Sherlock had never doubted it, what they had, what he felt, not once. _“You’re all I want John, everything…I love you_.”

The door at his side edged open a crack. “Come on love, come back in….he’s asking for you.”

“No I’m not.” A peevish voice sounded in the background. John couldn’t help but laugh. It was all so typically Sherlock.

“You heard him,” he said with a sniff, peering at the woman through blurred, teary eyes, “He doesn’t want me in there…and I…I….don’t know what to do anymore, how to help him…what to say to him to make it better, any of it…shitting fuck…it wasn’t supposed to be like this!” He slammed his fist into the plaster wall by his head, over and over until his knuckles were bruised and raw. He could feel her eyes on him, silently watching him work out his anger, and as his arm slowed down, from pain and fatigue and muscles screaming in protest, before the crunch of bone, before he could really hurt himself, she spoke again, softly. “Enough now love, that’s not helping anyone, least of all your young man in there.”

“He’s…not _my_ young man though, that’s the problem.” John winced, and cradled his hand against his thigh.

She showed neither surprise nor concern. “Well it certainly doesn’t look that way to me.”

“Oh,” he said with a rueful laugh, “I thought you knew… we’re not actually bonded.”

“I know dear, well, not to mark him physically, but…listen, I’ve been twenty-five years on these wards, and I know a strong bond when I see one. You’ve marked him on the inside dear, right here, where it counts.” She pressed a well-scrubbed palm to the centre of her ample bosom.

The door clicked closed, and the midwife hunkered down on the floor beside him. She huffed as her kneecaps clicked and steadied herself with a hand on John’s shoulder.

“All that nonsense in there, it’s all just noise and fuss,” she began, “If there were a knife in his hand right now, he’d stab you without a moment’s thought…because he’s not himself love, so take no notice, he’s blowing off steam same as you are.”

John wiped his face on the back of his hand and snorted. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not a bit of it,” she said, patting him on the arm. “What I meant, is that every vile thing he can think of is going to fly out of that beautiful mouth. Every horrible thing he can think of to spit at you and hurt you. He’s in pain, more pain than you ever could imagine and it’s instinct, to want to throw some of that back at you. But you just need to get back in there, hold his hand and get on with it, and every nasty insult he tosses your way just take it on the chin and ignore it…he doesn’t mean a single word…honestly.”

“You’ve obviously never met Sherlock before,” John huffed, drying off his face on the back of his arm.

“Oh, I’ve met a fair few Sherlock’s in my time, believe me, far too many to count. And he’s hardly unique, reacting this way, and you think this is the worst of him?” She smiled at him kindly. “He’s _scared_ love….and you are too, you’re both so young, god bless you….how old? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d have been scared too at your age. But trust me, whatever it is you’re feeling right now that boy’s feeling ten times worse. So you be the man he needs you to be, get back in there and tell him how much you love him and that beautiful baby he’s about to give birth to.  And you do, don’t you?”

“Yes, more than anything.”

She nodded, and patted him fondly. “Then I think you’ll do just fine.”

John struggled to stand, and took a few deep calming breaths before he nervously entered the room again behind her. Sherlock’s head was turned away from him as he edged towards the bed but his body was tense, and he gripped the pale blue sheet so tightly in his fists that his knuckles were white. John wondered if he’d heard all that, and decided that of course, he must have done.

“I thought I told you to leave,” Sherlock said evenly, but the manic, biting edge had faded from his voice. “Bugger off back to Kandahar for all I care.” He sighed deeply, crossed his arms and turned red-rimmed eyes on John. They flickered down John’s body and lingered briefly on his bruised right hand, taking in the grazed skin of his knuckles, the bright red beads of blood welling up where the skin had split from punching the wall outside.

“No, no, I don’t think I will, thanks,” said John, glaring right back this time. He pulled out a stool from the side of the bed and sat down. “I’m not going anywhere you stubborn bloody arse, now shut the hell up and listen for once, I’ve missed you….missed you so bloody much these past few months, I was a mess Sherlock…for so long…it…it ripped my heart out to go… and so the thought of being here with you, right here, right now, it’s the only damn think that’s kept me going, kept me sane. Do you understand me?”

 Sherlock’s voice was just a whisper. “I hate you, you left me…you said we’d be okay.”  

John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s brow, brushing back the sweat-soaked curls and tucking stray strands behind his ear. Then he lowered his head, nestling in gently with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He picked up Sherlock’s hand, and threaded their fingers together. “I know I did, and I’m so, so, sorry love…and if it makes you feel better, I hate me too. I didn’t want to go…I would never…but you know…we had no choice…”

“John,” Sherlock whispered again, reaching up his free hand to stroke a thumb across John’s plump bottom lip, silencing the choked-off words, the incomplete sentences, all he tried to say but couldn’t. “I’m scared.”

A strangled sob rose up in John’s throat and he caught the thin wrist in his hand. “I know Sherlock…I am too.”

 

 

 

* For further torture I found [this ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f00fgKzRtdo)to be quite appropriate - (so sorry!)

 

 

 

 


End file.
